Leroux Was Wrong
by PHLover213
Summary: What if everything you knew about Leroux's great work was dead wrong? What if Erik and Raoul were not competitors for Christine? What if neither of them ever had a chance in the first place? Leroux-based retelling with a twist.
1. The First Glance

**Before we start, don't murder us.**

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**Enjoy.**

**xxxx**

Erik pulled himself together and prepared to leave my flat. I watched unsympathetically from the window as Darius helped him into his waiting carriage. Frankly, I didn't believe his "I'm dying" story any more than I believed anything else Erik has ever said to me. A little something I've learned about Erik over the years. If his lips are moving, he's lying. Come to think of it, sometimes he's lying even when his lips aren't moving. Damned ventriloquists! But my point is that the whole Erik-dying-of-love routine in my flat that night was just one last pathetic attempt to steal Christine. Let me explain.

**xxxx**

I remember very clearly the first time I met Christine. Back then I was like any other patron of the Opera – I went to a few performances, and it was at a gala for one governmental occasion or another, though that particular fact escapes me. She was standing with some other chorus girls, though I noticed she stood apart from them and wasn't joining their conversation. I was having a particularly good evening – this was probably helped by my two glasses of champagne – and thought I would ask her to dance. After all, getting turned down was the worst that could happen.

"Good evening, mademoiselle," I said with a smile.

She glanced up at me and bowed her head, acknowledgement that she'd heard me.

"May I ask for this dance?"

"Certainly."

I was surprised by her seemingly eager acquiescence, but I offered her my hand and took her to the centre of the room. I've never been particularly good at dancing, but I tried my best. I was fortunate enough not to fall flat on my face on that occasion.

"What is your name, mademoiselle?" I asked timidly.

"Christine Daaé, monsieur." I remembered having seen her name in the program once – she understudied for Siebel in Faust, though her voice wasn't yet memorable; she hadn't met Erik yet.

"It's an honour, Mlle Daaé." I grinned widely. She was very pretty, to be sure. She had long blonde cascades of wavy hair and her eyes were clear and blue.

"What is _your_ name, monsieur? If it is not imprudent of me to ask . . ."

"Not at all, mademoiselle. My name is Saleel al-Hakeem."

"What a peculiar name!" she blurted out, before looking regretful. "I . . . I mean . . ."

I laughed. "I was born in Persia."

"That's interesting . . ." Christine replied, a vague smile on her pretty lips.

As timid as she was, Christine _was_ intelligent. Surprising as it may seem, given her chosen career and the way she was presented in a certain Gaston Leroux's book (which, you will learn, was rife with inaccuracies, however it _was_ good for a laugh), she was interesting to talk to. She could hold a conversation better than a certain Vicomte, that's certain.

Over the next weeks, I frequented the opera more than before. I did have rather an unashamed desire to see Christine again. And I noticed her more – not her voice, rather the way she looked, and her manner.

I visited her on two occasions after the show. Her dressing room was as far removed from all the others as it was possible to be. I knocked timidly, hoping that I wouldn't be turned away harshly.

A young maid of perhaps fifteen years came to the door. "Yes, monsieur?"

"I'm here for Miss Daaé."

"Saleel!"

I smiled as she came to the door, her hair still half-done. "Hello, mademoiselle."

"And what brings you here this evening?" she asked, smiling mischievously.

"I am merely an ardent admirer of a great singer."

"You flatter me." she said quietly. "And . . . I haven't any ambition to be famous, really."

I noticed her hesitation, but I couldn't help saying: "Then I shall not have to share you with anyone."

She looked truly perplexed. I glanced over her shoulder at the nearby maid. "Saleel, what are you talking about?"

I sucked in a breath. It was not, then, in my nature to be impulsive like that. "Christine, I want to court you."

What the Hell was I saying?

Christine stared at me for a good minute. I found myself waiting anxiously for a "yes", though why in God's name I had asked such a ridiculous question was confusing even to me. I was older than her, and she was pretty and young . . .

"Erm . . . yes?"

Yes is a wonderful word, don't you find? Yes to the right questions is perhaps the most beautiful word in any language. And I couldn't help but glance at her lovely lips as they formed that word.

I felt a smile forming as I took her hand gently in mine. She was the embodiment of femininity. I cannot exactly remember now which opera it was, but she was dressed prettily and now I unashamedly admired her.

You see? I was suitor number one.

From that day onwards I saw Miss Christine Daaé almost every day and increasingly I admired – _loved_ – her. She loved to tell me about her father and the stories he told her when she was younger. Every fable and legend she remembered and relayed to me with all the same passion and vibrancy as I imagined her father had. One began, "There was a clergyman's wife, and she was the best midwife in all Sweden! Once she was called to attend a Troll . . ." and another "On the estate of Norrhult, in the parish of Rumskulla, the people of old were troubled constantly by terrible ghosts . . ." Yes, she had quite a fondness for the tales of ghosts . . . and at that point neither of us knew that we were about to be plunged into one ourselves!

Of course, at that point I was unaware of Erik's presence in the opera house, though I did know him. I had indeed been banished from Persia, but for a much more ridiculous reason than the one Leroux gave – in essence, Erik and I were drunk one evening, and the trap-door lover had the nerve to say, "I would sooner _die_ than continue to serve the sultana!" You see, he served her in a vastly different way, again, than the way my papers said. He was basically a court jester, though one set in high regard, and he used his skills with illusions and ventriloquism to endear himself. Though, we were banished at the same time.

We went our separate ways, though, to misquote that famous saying, all roads seem to lead to Paris.

**xxxx**

**Before you Punjab us to death, it's all a comedy . . . please don't kill us. We're joking.**

**Yeah, and this is a collaboration between myself and BleedingHeartConservative. She's AMAZING. No, seriously, she is.**

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	2. Saleel, It's The Angel of Music!

**xxxx**

I remember with only too much clarity the day Christine told me of the legend of the Angel of Music. It was the same day I heard the terrified cry of "_C'est le Fantôme__!_" from the mouths of Meg Giry and her closest friend, little Jammes. They were only two or three years younger than Christine, yet in maturity levels they were remarkably different.

But as I was saying, I remember going to her dressing room that day. It was shortly after rehearsals, and she came back, her face flushed. She gently fanned air onto her face and puffed slightly. I smiled at the sight of her and she grinned brightly at me. We exchanged salutations and she sat down, thoughtfully resting her chin on her small, dainty fist.

"What is it that seems to occupy your mind so greatly?" I asked gently.

She glanced up. Taking a deep breath, she launched into a story. She often had a habit of doing such, and now was no exception. "Little Lotte was a pretty little girl. She was perfect, too; she practised her violin, she polished her own shoes, and she helped her mother with chores. And she liked, when she was allowed, to walk amongst the trees of the forest near her house. She listened for the sound of the fairies and her mother told her always to watch out for the _skogsra_ – you know, Saleel, the forest spirits that prey on married men – and the trolls. But that wasn't her favourite thing.

"No," Christine continued, with a devilish glint in her azure eyes, "Little Lotte's favourite thing was at night, when the Angel of Music came to her, and sang tune after celestial tune into her ear – no, not into her ear . . . into her _soul_."

Her eyes grew almost lustful at that thought and she closed them reverently.

"That was my favourite tale, you know, in Perros-Guirec with Papa and Raoul," she sighed quietly. "Papa always promised that he would send the Angel of Music to me, when he died . . ."

I should have known right from that moment that the combination of a religious symbol – to do with death in the oddest of senses – and the notion of music would have appealed to Erik. Perhaps he was listening even then!

"How long ago did he die, Christine?" I asked reverently.

Her teeth bit into her red lower lip. "When I was thirteen." she said quietly. "They never told me why."

"I'm sorry, my dear." I said, smiling comfortingly.

One thing I learned that day – do not _ever_ try to comfort Christine Daaé when she is crying over her father. The best thing to do is to simply leave her be and talk when _she_ comes back to _you_. But I didn't know that at the time.

"Do you want to go out somewhere before the performance?"

She looked up at me, eyes full of angry blue fire. "No. No, I don't." A pause. "I want to be alone, Saleel . . . I must save my voice." she was venomous in her tone and it made me nervous. So, rather despondently, I left her. I could tell – I'm not _that_ stupid – she was angry with me, but why was the mystery. Was it because of her father? I went into town, back to my small flat. It was on the third of five floors on the Rue de Rivoli, and I found myself wondering whether Christine could live there.

I quickly dismissed the thought, blushing.

"Good afternoon, Master." said my manservant, Darius. Another of Leroux's mistakes – in his book (oh, his book, how I laugh every time I see it!) he portrayed Darius quietly, as a submissive servant.

"How is your intended?"

Hardly.

"She's annoyed."

"Oh?" he asked curiously.

I frowned and walked past him, taking off my hat and coat. I dumped them on my bed and walked out into the parlour, sitting down. Darius followed a moment later. He smiled slightly with his crooked, yellowed teeth. "Would you like some coffee, Master? You're not looking yourself . . ."

"Thank you." I said quietly as I slid down in a chair.

Darius made coffee with alcohol, I am certain of it! For every time that I drank it, I was relaxed and I easily looked at my problems, seeing them through peaceful eyes. And that was just as well, because the next day, when I returned late in the morning to visit my lovely Christine, I was in for one of the biggest problems in my life.

I remember the scene; I remember the way my footsteps seemed to echo in the hallway. In the Opera it seemed to be perpetually sinister and dark, with the red light from gas lamps on walls and tables. I felt dread sinking into my stomach as I walked towards her dressing room door. Truth be told, I suspected that something was happening. And as Christine opened the door, she grinned widely at me. I was just about to apologise, but she grabbed me by the lapels of my coat and kissed me.

Well, that was certainly unexpected.

Taken aback, I pulled away from her. She grinned widely and led me into the dressing room. I sensed something odd, and wondered fleetingly what it was. "Saleel," Christine said, distracting me. I looked at her as I sat down on the cream-coloured sofa. "I have the most marvellous news."

I smiled slightly at her. "And what's that, dearest?"

Now, what she said next completely changed our lives. As soon as I heard it, I should have rushed into the mirror and told Erik to stop right where he was. Though, knowing Erik, he'd probably use his Punjab lasso on me. Ah, yes, the Punjab lasso. I think that that peculiar "weapon" deserves a book all of its own, what with all the havoc it caused! No, Erik did not learn strangulation in India. He did not entertain the sultana by killing people. No, he used it to pick desert flowers – literally. He would go into the gardens and his dexterity was so great that he could slice the stems of the flowers with that catgut noose.

He shall kill me if ever he reads these papers!

"Saleel, listen!" said Christine. I looked back at her, shaken from my reverie.

"I'm sorry, my dear, could you repeat yourself?" I said gently, holding her hand.

I remember the look in her eyes as she exclaimed all too joyously: "I was visited by the Angel of Music this morning!"

**xxxx**

**Oh. Cliff hanger. I am evil.**

**First, one thing. You guys like Persian-based humour? I can encourage you only too strongly to read "The Real Don Juan Triumphant" by the marvellous collaborator, BleedingHeartConservative. Read it. NOW.**

**Another thing, please tell me what you thought of this chapter! I am nervous!**

**Okay, see you guys next time!**


	3. It Begins

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**xxxx**

The news hit me like a crashing chandelier and my throat was suddenly dry like an equatorial forest.

"The _Angel of Music_." I repeated incredulously. Something about that was beyond worrying.

"Yes, Saleel, he was here; his voice was so sweet and beautiful . . . it's just like Papa said, Saleel! He sang to me until it made me want to sob."

I tilted her head up and smiled. "What did the voice sound like, my dear?"

She paused. I knew that look very well. It meant Christine was about to reference something that her father once said. Slowly it morphed between the oddest emotions – something akin to desire, then anger, followed by confusion. Why would she be mad at me? As yet I hadn't called her belief into question or expressed my severe _dis_belief. If an angel were to show themselves anywhere on Earth, it would not be in the decadence and sin of an opera house, or so I thought. Though, angel or not, Erik could pass for something above humanity. This, of course, hadn't yet registered in my brain. "It was . . . _incomparable_. Transcendent. Magnificent. _Sensual_. Perfect."

It certainly hurt my pride to see her describe some other person's voice like that.

"But it was a man's voice, I am sure. He said "Fear not, Christine Daaé, I am the angel that your Daddy Daaé sent for you from Heaven!" and I believed him, Saleel. He has asked me if he can give me lessons." Christine's eyes simply flared.

She looked into my eyes expectantly.

"So . . . you want my permission?" I asked.

"Yes." she returned brightly.

I pensively stared at the mirror – _that_ was a detail Leroux got right. That mirror was _huge_; it nearly took up the whole wall and reflected most of the room. You're probably asking why I didn't tell the young author what really happened. Well, that would hardly have made for a good story. Or a laugh. Leroux was a gullible man when I put on an unintelligible accent and whispered ever-so-hoarsely as if I was on death's door. I found myself telling him . . .

But I am getting ahead of myself.

"Why?" I couldn't help but ask.

"Because . . . I . . ." Christine bit her lip. I learnt that it was a nervous habit of hers. "I care about your opinion, Saleel."

As I said, I should have just denied that request. I would have saved myself a lot of bother. I should have told her what I suspected – that somebody was taking advantage of her – but being the good man I was (yes, yes, laugh all you like), I simply nodded dumbly. She grinned. "Saleel, I shall be very happy! Thank you! Yes, this has made me awfully happy!"

**xxxx**

The next day I came to her and she was bawling. Worried, I took her in my arms. "What's the problem, dearest?" I asked worriedly, moving a strand of blonde hair from her eyes.

"The Angel of Music says that I cannot be with a man!" she exclaimed.

Well.

That was the moment I became suspicious. Why would any of God's pure angels want to bar a mere protégée from a relationship, from _happiness?_ It seemed a little incredible. And as I looked at her worry grew within me.

_You know, Saleel, even angels fall._

Erik said that to me in Persia and the words came back to me then as I looked into those lovely blue eyes. Suspicion began then and there. I said nothing to Christine – what would I say? "_Dear, I don't want you to fulfil your life's ambition because there's a possibility that your Angel is human!_" That didn't seem a viable option. So I vowed to investigate.

"Where did the voice come from, my dear?" I asked, my voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. Christine raised an eyebrow.

"It was . . . was . . . I'll sound mad, but it was . . . everywhere."

"No, dear, some ventriloquists-"

And I paused there. In Persia Erik had a habit of making the most bizarre things speak. One afternoon, we were sitting in one of the royal gardens, and he glanced at a fish. He grinned mischievously – oh, the masks, Erik's face . . . they are matters I'll address later – and said, "Look, Saleel, that one wants to speak with you!" And he proceeded to impersonate the fish, giving it a tragic soliloquy as it sobbed about never feeling the sun. Yes, luckily for him, the Trapdoor Lover was given a sense of humour. And the most hideous face on earth.

I wouldn't realise until much later how painfully true those words would ring in regards to him.

"What do you mean?" Christine asked, distractedly glancing at the mirror.

"N- nothing . . ." I stuttered out.

I left her without another word, and that was when I knew I had to find out more about it. So that night, during the performance, I left my box – Box 7, right next to the dreaded Box 5 as it happens – and went to her room. Before you go saying I was acting improperly . . . now, I cannot correct you; I was acting terribly. But I went through the semi-darkened corridors and to her room. Cautiously I paused at the door and pressed my ear to it. Therein I heard what seemed to be crying. And I recognised the voice.

The voice! Like the lasso, one could write a million words about Erik's voice, each one more poetic than the last, but you would never fully encompass the sounds those blessed vocal cords produced! Imagine, if you can, what you think an angelic choir may sound like. Then, add . . . to put it in blunt terms, a sort of sensuality. That was what was wholly confusing about Erik. Never had he experienced romance, experiences and sins of the flesh, and yet when he sang he expressed passion more beautifully and accurately than anyone else I ever heard.

"Oh, Christine . . ." sobbed the voice, painfully. _Christine?_

I couldn't help opening the door, and the voice stopped abruptly. I knew to whom that voice belonged. I knew because I saw that the room was empty, yet there was absolutely no way that I could mistake it for someone else. "Erik," I said slowly.

I heard a cough and a sniffle, then nothing at all.

**xxxx**

**I think you should all read **_**An Evaluation of Erik**_** by the marvellous collaborator BleedingHeartConservative. Just sayin'.**

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**See you next time.**


	4. A Simple Lesson

**Forewarning – in this phic the authors do not take any responsibility for psychological harm caused due to the crack-ness of this pairing. Nor do we accept complaints about the characterisations of Erik and Raoul that you'll see. Just a bit of fun ;)**

**Enjoy!**

**(We own nothing! :D)**

**xxxx**

"Christine, does your love belong to anyone?"

A dreadful, painful silence hung in the air between them.

Yes, dear reader, I had discovered the fabled "lumber-room" next to Christine's dressing room. Though it was really more of a . . . well, in blunt terms, it was her bathroom.

It was terrible of me, but I had to know. I knew, I _knew_ that Erik was involved in this whole "Angel of Music" thing. There was simply no mistaking that voice. I can't describe it accurately, other than that it was truly the voice of an angel. That fact, if no others, rings true.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I heard next.

"_I don't know, Maestro._"

I don't know? Well, I didn't know either, but that filled me with both dread and excitement. Could it be that she thought that she loved me? Could Christine be mine? That thought almost made me want to cry out in my joy, but I stifled myself as I remembered discovery would mean disgrace – though it was not as if I had not experienced that before.

In Persia, Erik and I once got off working for a few hours and we went to a secret room Erik had made for the Shah's voyeuristic interests. This room connected directly with one of the rooms in the harem, and therein one could sit for hours with no occupation other than watching young ladies move around in their singular, graceful catlike way.

That was unless one was caught like a certain living corpse and I were, that fateful day.

And I was terrified of a similar thing happening, hence my need for silence.

My ear still pressed to the door, I waited anxiously. I heard a gargantuan sigh and I knew it was Erik – the sigh was abysmal, painful, shockingly human when one considered that they were supposedly listening to an angel's voice. It could have been nobody else.

"Angels cannot teach those with two loves, dear pupil."

"W- wha- Maestro, I don't understand."

"If ever you gave your heart on earth, I would have to leave you."

Yes, that's right, Erik made Christine swear because of _me_, not because of that self righteous Vicomte de Chagny, and I- oh, I am getting ahead of myself. All in good time.

"Oh, no, Maestro!" she sounded desperate, pleading, nothing like the fiery, smirking Christine Daaé that I knew, and the fact that she was submissive to him . . . it was, to be blunt, disturbing to listen to.

Now, on that note (pun unintended), I have a secret to divulge. I suppose when you try to imagine Erik's voice while he taught Christine, you are thinking a deep, sweet, perfect tenor. Well, in their lessons, this was not exactly the case. You see, Erik wanted to show Christine _exactly_ the right note, the right pitch, the right way to sing. And his falsetto range was rather flawless.

Yes, yes, I can see the realisation dawning on your face! That's correct – when Erik taught Christine to sing, he did it in the same octave!

**xxxx**

I was lucky that day. True, I was stuck in Christine's powder room for a good four hours – it seemed it was easy for the Angel of Music and his lovely protégée to lose track of time – but after that, she left, and went straight home. So I was free to walk out.

"Saleel, as I breathe." said the singular, powerful voice.

I froze in my place.

"I was unaware of your voyeuristic tendencies, daroga."

Now, the term daroga is not in fact Persian for chief of police, as dear M. Leroux was only too quick to say. It's quite similar, actually, to the term for "liar", so we can assume that either Leroux was rather inept in his knowledge of Arab language . . . either that or he just thought he was incredibly witty.

I bristled at the suggestion that I was spying on my sweetheart.

"Erik."

"I go by _Maestro_ these days." he said haughtily, with a small chuckle. I thought it was rather brave of a man who had just been singing soprano to act as if he had more possession over her than I did – but something told me divulging our relationship mayn't have been what one would call a good move.

"Oh?"

"Yes, and you'd do best not to go snooping around in my business. Can I not be trusted to love?"

To love? It was unlike Erik to be so forward with his emotions. But then again I recalled that Christine had told me she'd entered the Conservatory at fourteen. Had he been watching her for that long?

I decided then that I would allow him to make the assumptions that he would – it takes a bold man to tell Erik that he is wrong.

"Erm . . . no?"

"Leave now, daroga. If you're a wise man then you will not return."

I held back a scoff, because I _was_ going to return. I probably had more control over Christine than he did, after all!

"As you wish, Erik." I said, holding back a chuckle at his presumptuousness.

I left the room, not thinking that I would run into my only other potential threat as I did.

Raoul de Chagny was every bit as perfect, as attractive, as innocent and as shy as Leroux said. He was not a young man. He was a boy. He dressed in fine clothing and he had thick blonde hair and a fine moustache. He was pale, slightly muscular from his months spent at sea, and his eyes were as clear and blue as Christine's. His only downfall was the brain between his ears – or the lack thereof. He wasn't a bright boy, because he didn't need to be. He had everything else. Including, I will freely admit, a good heart. And rather a large wallet.

"Excuse me, monsieur." he said, recoiling as he lightly bumped into me.

I returned with a grunt and started on my way, eager to get home and brood over the fact that Erik was attempting to take Christine from me, but the boy coughed, and I turned around.

"Yes?" I asked snappily.

"Do you know a . . . Christine Daaé, monsieur?"

_Yes, and I happen to be courting her, so just leave, you dolt, she's mine_.

Often it is too late that one thinks of what one should have said.

"Yes, but . . . she isn't here."

"Oh." That simple word was filled with all the despair and passion that one might expect of a young and decidedly unrequited love. I fought back a smile at the thought that I was the one to whom her affections belonged.

"W- well thank you anyway, monsieur."

I grunted again and moved off, happy to forever be free of him.

How wrong _that_ eventually turned out to be.

**xxxx**

**I am **_**not**_** going to rant about how I haven't updated anything in over a week.**

**Oh, and another BleedingHeartConservative plug, because she is awesome, as well as reading **_**The Real Don Juan Triumphant**_**, you should read **_**The Phantom of Harrison High**_**. Both excellent stories. ;D**

**Please review! ^_^**

**See you next time!**


	5. Irritation

After Erik and Christine began their lessons together, her career began to blossom almost instantly. Which meant that there wasn't one man in the Opera who didn't know she existed.

And not one man who didn't have romantic intentions toward her.

I hate to be childish and state that I was there first. But in all fairness, I was.

It became a sadly regular thing, my spying on them. I began to notice the progress, began to hear the tenderness and anger in his voice as they talked between singing. Christine became worryingly subdued whenever I came up in their conversations, telling him that she was only humouring me, that it was the proper thing to do—taking a suitor or two. Begrudgingly he would accept that. But on one occasion, her Angel of Music became particularly bitter—probably due to the less than proper reunion she and I had shared after being apart several days due to some very long and arduous rehearsals for the newly cast (and doomed) production of Faust—and when she walked into the room, head solemnly bowed, for their lesson, he was furious. I did not envy her position. Because as much as I have told you about Erik _not_ being a professional murderer, rather a trained monkey for the Persian court, he had had some _terrible_ rages in his time. Life was not kind to him, and he was determined to retaliate.

"Did you enjoy it, Christine?"

She looked up, eyes falsely innocent. I knew those very eyes to be bright and fiery. She knew exactly what he was talking about. "I'm sorry, Maestro? I'm afraid I don't understand."

"With your _suitor_! Did you enjoy yourself?"

She blinked, looking like some doe-eyed imbecile. I choked back a laugh. "Were you watching, Maestro? I had no idea angels were so inclined . . ."

My lovely Christine had some nerve. Oh, how I loved it. "Christine Daaé!"

She cast down her eyes, feigning an apology. But he was already too enraged to stop.

"Is he a _good_ kisser, Christine?"

The question was borne out of spite, it was obvious, but it was a somewhat badly aimed blow.

"Perhaps not quite as good as Raoul." she said absently, before her eyes widened in real terror. Erik and I shared rage, then, as we both roared:

"_What?_"

But he was very quickly distracted from his fury by the sound of my voice. I slapped my hand over my mouth. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

"What was that, child? You know our lessons cannot have spectators. I have told you as much."

She was inching towards the door where I hid. I kept my eyes glued to her, dreading discovery. She would throw me out and never again would I run my fingers through that golden hair, never again would I stare adoringly into those crystalline blue eyes before I leaned down to kiss her farewell . . .

"It was the pipes." she said, bashing the door with her fist, facing the mirror. Oh, it was a cue. "They make some dreadful noise sometimes." she said, glancing at me through the crack in the door. Her look seemed to say _Play along, you __**idiot**__._

And so, shakily, I did my very best impersonation of a faulty water pipe.

She was stifling a giggle when the Angel roared with a divine rage.

"Perhaps we should cut today's lesson short, my child!" he said curtly, and the lamps in the room flared as he departed. To be honest, I never did figure out how he did some of those . . . _things_. He truly was a genius.

She threw the door open when she knew he was gone and without a word she slapped me.

Maybe I deserved it.

And as I righted myself, cheek aching, hand to my face, she sighed and cupped my face gently. "You silly man." she murmured, eyes soft. "You know that it is _dreadfully_ improper to spy on a lady."

"I am glad I did." I replied. She scowled and pulled away. "So, perhaps if you will not enlighten your Angel, you may tell me when you last kissed this childhood sweetheart of yours."

She stared at me, eyes dark. "You are not my husband, Saleel, it is my own business."

"Indeed." I agreed, clasping my hands together. "But you must know, I have every intention of making you my wife, Christine, and I must be made aware of unfaithfulness."

She blushed. "I'm sorry," she murmured, walking towards me, hands extended, placating. "It was a bit of . . . a mistake. But he had me cornered, and we talked, for a moment."

To my dismay, and of course, obviously, to Erik's, she never ignored Monsieur de Chagny. Never made an effort to. Even when he made his supposedly unwanted romantic advances. I don't know where Leroux even got the idea that she acquiesced to her Angel's requests at all times. Because she most certainly did not.

Oh, well. Never let the truth get in the way of an over-romanticised and exaggerated story.

"And I didn't know what was happening until it happened. And then . . . well, I was shocked, but also a bit impressed. He was so timid when we were children. And . . ."

"I get the idea," I said bitterly. She rolled her eyes and wrapped her arms around my neck.

"Hush now. Nobody could ever replace you."

I grew to do nothing but doubt those words.

The Angel of Music and Christine Daaé had become inextricably linked, I learned. She depended on him and God knows he depended on her. For love, for self-worth, for redemption from his personal hell. I must say, I pitied him. Harem girl after harem girl rejected him and apparently, I am told, they ran like animals when he went to visit the sultana until he endeared himself to them, by making huge, soft red roses appear out of thin air. They began to warm to him then. He could very well have persuaded one of those dull, stupid girls into marriage, into running away with him, if he had been so desperate back then. In such a case I may have married Christine right away rather than-

Dear me, I can't give too many details away this early on.

The Vicomte de Chagny became a frequent visitor to Christine's dressing room, too, after he kissed her. I should have been furious, should have demanded that she throw him out. It was crowded enough when I was just vying against Erik for my dear intended's affections. I didn't need a lad with money and youth on his side thrown into the bargain. Things were crowded enough as it was.

Though, in the early days, before Christine was handed the role of Marguerite, Raoul was quite harmless. He was like a faithful pet to her, and she treated him with about as much regard as one would treat a housecat. The two of us would walk past him into her dressing room—a gesture which, I am sure, made me two very powerful, very bitter enemies in one go—where we would sit and talk and she would tell me stories. I never tired of listening to them. She became so vibrant, so _alive_ when telling them, and the silent, subdued Christine I observed in her vocal lessons disappeared.

Erik and Raoul never saw her so brilliant. They saw her sing, they saw her take part in a story, but never, I am sure, did they see her as mistress of one.

It made her beautiful.

**xxxx**

**Also, I must admit, due to how busy she seems, I haven't sent this to my dear conspirator BleedingHeartConservative for approval. If this is a particularly crap chapter, go ahead and blame me.**

**Do tell us what you think!**


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